Going Wild

by Gretchen Galway

  “You’re so much like him.”

  “I try to be,” Grant said.

  She smiled. “I meant your grandfather.”

  “Thanks a lot.” He picked up another brush.

  “You know I’m right.” She took the brush away. “Troy is too sweet to stand up to people.”

  “Oh yeah? He just stood up to Grandfather. Any day now, he’ll actually retire.”

  “Troy did that only because you told him to do it.”

  “Dad stood up to Grandfather,” Grant said.

  “Not quite,” she said, sighing. “Your father was the love of my life, but he wasn’t always as tough as he should’ve been. He married me in secret and never came up here to have it out with his father man to man. It was easier to avoid him, make a living on his own, tell himself he was taking a stand—”

  “That’s not fair,” Grant said. “He did take a stand. He never asked Grandfather for anything.”

  “And why not? When you came along, we didn’t even have a place to live. Good thing my milk came in, because we wouldn’t have been able to afford formula.” She reached out and squeezed his shoulder. “I’m not criticizing him. I’m describing him. You must remember how he’d never argue about anything. I had to fight all the battles. Getting the landlord to return the security deposit, having it out with the neighbor who kept blocking our driveway with his RV, sending food back at restaurants when it wasn’t what we ordered—”

  “All right, all right,” he said, turning away to study her latest painting. It was about the size of a piece of notebook paper, still in the early stages, mostly abstract shapes in shades of cobalt blue. “I’m a nice guy too.”

  She put two palms on his back. “I’m not saying you’re not nice. You’re wonderful. But if you fell in love with a woman your family didn’t approve of, you wouldn’t run off with her and hide. You’d stand and fight and make them love her as much as you did.”

  He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the unfinished painting. “I had no idea.” He cleared his throat. “That he… that you… I didn’t realize.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m fine now, other than missing your dad. Your grandfather wasn’t such an ogre after all. In fact, he begged us to move in with him. Troy didn’t want to switch schools, so Grandfather got him a driver to bring him out to Point Reyes every day until he graduated. He built me this cottage. He never said a bad word about your dad and insisted on paying for anything we wanted. Cars, travel, clothing, school, anything.”

  “He felt guilty.”

  “He felt love. And grief.” Brandi patted him on the back and then hooked a hand on his arm and turned him around to face her. “You’re the only one he couldn’t reach.”

  “I didn’t want his money.”

  “This isn’t about money, and you know it,” she said. “Go talk to him. Today. Now.”

  “Mom, I was up all night working, and—”

  “Do it.”

  He had to laugh. “Are you sure I don’t take after you? With the stubborn thing?”

  “I’ll know if you don’t talk to him, so don’t try to skip out of here without doing it.”

  “I’m not a kid anymore, lying about my homework.”

  “We all have some growing up to do,” she said. “No matter how old we are.”

  “Even you?” Grant couldn’t imagine his mother changing or needing to change. She was a rock. If she wanted him to do this, he’d do it. “I’ll talk to him, but I don’t guarantee it’ll go well.”

  “To break the ice, ask him about his collection. I saw a truck deliver something new today.”

  Grant loved his mother, but even she couldn’t get him to talk to his grandfather about medieval armor and heraldry. “I’ll think of something.” He gave her a quick hug and left her to her painting, bracing himself for another awkward, pointless conversation with the family patriarch.

  An hour later, Jane was in the bathroom of a yoga studio near Lake Merritt, pulling on her leggings. Unable to find parking in the popular neighborhood, she’d had to park the minivan more than a half mile away.

  But she was going to do yoga. For years now she’d been meaning to try this and here she was. Grinning, she walked across the bamboo floorboards to Sydney, who had spread out two mats side by side for them in the back.

  The class was packed, mostly with women who were young and female and looked much more flexible than she was.

  But she didn’t care. When the class started and she immediately fell behind—the instructor called out poses by name and didn’t explain what to actually do with her body—Jane just stretched and flailed and wobbled and did her best.

  Child pose was very helpful. She was good at the pushups, bad at everything else. She thought of Hugo on his mat and cushions and kept going.

  The corpse pose at the end was her least favorite. She hated doing nothing. She wanted to get her shoes on and put away the mat and grab Sydney and talk about work and maybe hint about Grant, but that would be dangerous because of Troy and the Whitman family and—

  What was she going to do about Troy and the Whitmans and work if they found out about her and Grant?

  What was going on with her and Grant?

  “Will you relax?” Sydney whispered, lying on her back next to her. “I can hear you stressing.”

  “How long are we supposed to just lie here?”

  “Shh,” Sydney said.

  Jane crossed her arms over her chest and frowned at the beamed ceiling.

  “Arms at your sides,” the instructor said, squatting down next to her and touching her shoulder. “Empty your mind.”

  “Why?” Jane asked. She’d never heard a good reason for that. The world had plenty of empty-headed people already.

  “Shh,” Sydney said.

  Finally, they sat up and bowed to each other and people began talking and moving around. The torture was over.

  They put away their mats and went out to the street.

  “I knew you’d hate yoga,” Sydney said.

  “I loved everything until we had to play dead. Are there classes that skip that part?”

  “No.”

  “Is it bad if I leave when it starts?”

  “Yes.”

  Jane tugged down her underwear, which had crawled up practically to her shoulder blades during downward-facing dog. “I can get used to it, like going to the gynecologist.”

  “You owe me a smoothie.” Sydney pointed to a place across the street. “And you’re going to tell me what’s up with you.”

  They jogged across the street, their gym bags smacking their hips. The fog hadn’t cleared off yet, and the thick silver sky made it seem more like an afternoon in November than midday in late summer.

  “So what’s his name?” Sydney asked.

  Jane stopped walking. “How…?”

  “You’re too happy for this to be about work, so it has to be a man.” Sydney adjusted her sunglasses and continued walking down the sidewalk.

  After pausing a moment to admire Sydney’s insight, Jane said, “You’d make a great therapist.”

  “Thinking about it,” Sydney said. “Might as well get paid for the work I do anyway.”

  “Seriously?”

  Sydney opened the door to the smoothie shop. “Yes.” Then she sighed. “No, not seriously. But I have been fantasizing about a coconut mango blast with chia seeds and wheatgrass since yesterday.”

  They ordered at the counter—Jane passed on the wheatgrass—and brought their number on a metal stand to the back patio, where they sat near a glowing heater.

  “Oakland in summer,” Sydney said, pulling on a sweatshirt.

  The counter guy brought the smoothies.

  When he was gone, Sydney asked, “Were you with a man yesterday?”

  “Yes,” Jane said. “But I can’t tell you about it.”

  Sydney made a knowing face and sipped her smoothie. “You don’t have to tell me. I can guess.”

  “You can?” Jane leaned back in her c
hair and smiled at her, impressed. She had told her about Grant moving in, but nothing—nothing—about any of the boiling sexual tension leading up to yesterday. But Sydney always seemed to know things anyway.

  “Got to be work related for you not to tell me,” Sydney said.

  “Oh.” Jane frowned at the frothy coconut milk in her glass. “Not necessarily.”

  “It’s Troy, isn’t it?”

  “What? Oh my God, no. Ew. How could you think that? He’s…”

  “Sexy. Sweet. Smart.”

  “He’s Troy Whitman,” Jane said, laughing. “Not my type.”

  “How can he not be your type?”

  “Is he your type?”

  “Hell yes,” Sydney said. “What’s the matter with you?”

  Jane leaned over the table. “You have a thing for Troy?”

  Sydney regarded her. “You really didn’t sleep with him?”

  “No. I’ve never— No.”

  “I don’t know why you’re acting like it would be so bad to want to get to know him a little better,” Sydney said. “Not that we should, but it’s completely understandable for a red-blooded woman of the heterosexual persuasion to consider it.”

  “Frequently, it sounds like,” Jane said.

  Brown eyes twinkling, Sydney sipped her smoothie, smiling around the rim. “No law against it, is there?”

  “I had no idea,” Jane said.

  “Now you do. Keep it to yourself.”

  “I will.” Jane looked around as if their colleagues from across the bay were sitting on the smoothie café patio with them. “Not a word.”

  “Your turn.”

  “I can’t,” Jane said. “This isn’t just… thinking. This really happened.”

  “And you’re going to do it again, it looks like, so you might as well tell me because I’ll find out soon enough, especially if it’s some guy from work. Better to have me in your corner now, so I can help smooth things over for you when they go sour.”

  “You’re optimistic,” Jane said flatly.

  “You’re going to marry the man?”

  Jane set her glass down on the rickety table, holding it so it wouldn’t topple off. “Are you going to marry Troy?”

  “I might if he asked.”

  Jane stared.

  “See? Now you have to tell me,” Sydney said. “I’ve bared my soul.”

  “Wow. I had no idea.”

  “Spit it out, Jane. I’ve got to get home and do my laundry.”

  Jane was still reeling at the discovery of Sydney being secretly in love, or even lust, with Troy Whitman.

  “It was Grant,” Jane said.

  “The furry brother,” Sydney said, nodding. “Of course. That Whitman magic strikes again.”

  “It had been building up for some time.”

  “And you didn’t tell me anything about it,” Sydney said.

  “There wasn’t anything to tell you, not really.”

  “Sounds like there was.”

  “Now there is,” Jane said.

  “And Troy doesn’t know?”

  “Of course not. Neither one of us wants him to know. That would be… bad.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Especially after what happened on Friday,” Sydney said.

  “What happened on Friday?”

  “I thought that was why you called me today,” Sydney said. “I thought the yoga was a ruse. A different ruse. There were rumors flying around all afternoon.”

  “For God’s sake, tell me.”

  “New guy coming in. Senior manager. Taking Nicole’s spot.”

  “Where’s she going? Please don’t tell me she’s—”

  “Not partner. Deep breath. She’s leaving.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know, but the rumor is she’s moving to New York,” Sydney said. “She’s always wanted to join the big leagues.”

  * * *

  The implications sank in. They were bringing in some guy from the outside to take Nicole’s job—and not promoting either Jane or Sydney.

  “Damn it,” Jane said.

  “I’m thinking about going into private accounting,” Sydney said. “I’m tired of being passed over, you know? I know you know.”

  “I do know.”

  “I’m mad, and I’m cool with being mad for a little while,” Sydney said, “but I’m not going to sit around and take it. If I can’t find a better job soon, I’m going to go back to school.”

  “But… all that work to get your CPA, the years at Whitman. What would you—”

  “I don’t know, but it’s got to be better than what I’ve got now. I need to respect myself even if they don’t.” Sydney took out her phone. “I’m really sorry, but I really do need to do my laundry. I’ve got nothing to wear tomorrow. Some of it needs to hang dry, you know? In this fog, it’ll take forever.” She stood up, holding her cup.

  Jane didn’t move. Her joy was gone. Now she kept imagining some man walking into the office and taking a job that she’d earned for herself.

  Troy had said he would do what he could.

  Either Troy couldn’t do much, or Troy didn’t care.

  She slowly got to her feet. “Thanks for letting me come to your yoga class.” Why hadn’t Troy told her on Friday about the new guy?

  “I really am sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. I thought you knew.” Sydney used her napkin to wipe off the table for the next people. On the way out, she’d drop a few bills in the tip jar. Her mom had worked as a waitress for years, inspiring Sydney to be the best kind of customer.

  “But then why would you think I’d slept with Troy?” Jane lifted her bag over her shoulder. “Why would I sleep with him after he gave my job to some guy off the street?”

  Sydney shrugged. “Because you’d decided you had nothing left to lose.” They walked back into the café and out the front door to the street. “It’s what I would do,” she added, smiling.

  24

  Grant sat in his Rover outside Jane’s house, his head spinning. He’d ended up talking to his grandfather for over an hour.

  A lot to think about.

  Because she often put her minivan in the garage, he couldn’t tell if Jane was home yet. As much as he wanted to see her—well, get her in bed—he was also wanting a hike to settle his mind.

  An idea came to him. Smiling, he took out his phone.

  Are you home? he texted.

  Within a minute, she replied. Yes why are you sitting outside?

  You saw me?

  Yes.

  Come hike with me. He added a tiny mountain emoji.

  Now? she asked.

  He got out of his truck, locked it, and set his favorite hat on his head before replying.

  Busy? he asked.

  She also didn’t reply right away. And then finally,

  Coming.

  He debated sending another emoji, this one with sexual connotations. That O-face one, for instance. Or was he supposed to be screaming?

  “Why didn’t you come inside and ask me?” She stood on the front step wearing a hat, a pink visor that didn’t cover her hair, and a parka he would’ve considered suitable for fieldwork in Antarctica.

  His heart jumped to see her again. And other parts, which was why he hadn’t gone in. He waited for her on the sidewalk, and when she reached him, he caught her up in his arms and kissed her the way he’d been imagining for hours.

  She smelled like flower shampoo and tasted like…

  “Cookies?” he asked, dragging his lips across her cheek to her temple, which knocked the visor off her head.

  Rather breathless, she readjusted the hat, smiling at him, and held up her other hand. Resting on her palm was a brownish-orange rectangle in plastic wrap. “Carrot cake. I brought you a piece.”

  “I smelled it baking this morning.” He didn’t want cake, but he took it so he could put his arms around her again. She felt soft and warm. Especially in the parka. “Are you sure you’re up for a hike?”

  “Why?”r />
  “I thought you might have a fever,” he said. “Your coat is rated for ten below. It’s pushing seventy.”

  “It’s windy,” she said. “And the sun isn’t going to come out. I hate getting cold.”

  He smiled and kissed her again. “Fair enough.” He pointed to the park at the top of the hill. “I’ll put the cake in the truck for later, all right? Let’s go.”

  They walked hand in hand without speaking. He had his own thoughts to occupy him, many of them about her, and she seemed distracted as well. When they’d walked for over ten minutes and still hadn’t said a word, he began to get uneasy. Maybe he should’ve walked by himself and not inflicted his company on her when he was in a mood.

  When they came upon the fork for his favorite trail, she pulled him back and pointed straight ahead. “Flat trails for me today,” she said. “I seem to have hurt myself in yoga.”

  “I didn’t know you did yoga.”

  “Neither did my hamstrings,” she said.

  He laughed. “I thought you were cleaning up after the party.”

  “It was already done when I got there,” she said.

  “That’s nice.”

  “So then I called a friend and we went to yoga.”

  “Harder than you expected?”

  “I liked the hard parts,” she said. “I’ll probably go again. If Sydney doesn’t mind.”

  “Sydney’s your friend?”

  “From work,” she said, giving him a look.

  “Huh,” he said, not knowing what she meant by that.

  She slipped her hand out of his grasp, ostensibly to move a branch off the path, but he suspected it was personal.

  “Did something happen at Whitman you want to tell me about?” He could hear the reluctance in his own voice as he asked the question.

  “Not particularly,” she said. “We shouldn’t talk about Whitman.”

  He completely agreed, especially after talking to his grandfather. For the first time Grant could remember, he hadn’t pressured him to work at the firm, even after extracting the humble details of his financial situation.

  “You’re a good writer,” his grandfather had said. Scowling and gruff, but he’d said it. “Keep at it.”

  It had meant more to Grant to hear it than he’d imagined.